Recent Entries

...that the last post was a moment of crazymouth and I'm fine now. I would have posted this earlier but LJ refused to load for me until now. Send my regards to that Russian guy who owns the site, won't you?

You see, I have a shameful habit of reading smutfic while high. Bad smutfic, because try as I might I cannot seem to do anything in a serious manner while high, including be horny. And given that I have a few days off right now, I've been high maybe 46 of the last 48 hours. Unfortunately for me, there is only one story in the Le Chevalier D'Eon section, and it is this:

I was planning to visit the butterfly conservatory today, but I backed into the garage doorway and broke my sideview mirror as I was leaving.

Yeah, if there's a better karmic indicator that you shouldn't go out today, I'd like to hear it. Still, the mirror itself was intact, so me being me, I decided, "What the hell, I can salvage this." So I reattached the mirror with packing tape. It wasn't until I had gotten back in the car that I realized I had reattached it at far too wide an angle to be able to actually see anything. But it's only the passenger side mirror, so I'll be fine, right? LOLOL no.

What I neglected to mention in the first sentence is that I've only been to the butterfly conservatory three times. I have no idea how to drive there. The only directional aids I had were a Google Maps printout. It told me to turn from Hampden Street onto Northampton Street. There is no sign on Hampden Street that says "Northampton Street." If Northampton Street DOES in fact intersect Hampden Street, they've hidden it damn well. To complicate matters it's raining mountain lions and wolves (which, on the bright side, at least means the mirror isn't so much of a problem since I can't see anything anyway) and my car keeps making this funny noise. Fuck it, I'm smart enough to know I'm not going to South Deerfield in this state. I'll turn around and go to the library. Unfortunately it takes me fifteen minutes to figure out HOW to turn around so I can go to the library, but I manage.

On the way to the library I run over a pothole so large that it injures my shoulder.

Thank you, life, that will be all from you today. I need a fucking drink.

I've been noticing that an increasing source of debate around the Interwebs centers around what I find to be an incredibly stupid issue: whether or not to have kids. No, not whether some person in particular should have kids, but whether anyone should ever have kids. This vexes me because the people on both sides of it are, quite frankly, maniacs.

So I had a dream that odangoatama and I were in nursing school together, or something, and we were practicing drawing blood from each other, only she screwed up and injected an entire hypodermic needle full of air into my vein. Nobody seemed too concerned, despite the fact that injecting enough air into a person can LITERALLY KILL THEM. Also, I distinctly remember being able to feel the needle prick, rendering the common folk wisdom that "you can't feel pain in your dreams" moot.

I've just... stopped asking questions at this point. It really doesn't help anymore.

No. Just no. What the FUCK is wrong with you for even thinking that. The protagonists of Digimon are between 6 and 11, for starters, so even if you were shipping them with each other you'd be a disgusting fucking pedophile. Throwing the actual Digimon into it just makes it... I don't know whether you can even call it bestiality because they're not animals, they're "digital monsters." It's something that should not come into the mind of any normal person, is what it is. Literally, if you ship any of the Digidestined with their Digimon, you are a fucking revolting human being and I want nothing to do with you. I don't even want you near me, you sick fuck. The fact that you think anyone wants you here just boggles my mind. We don't. We're just too nice to actually evict you because the administration already doesn't like us.

Between that and your near-CONSTANT screaming about yaoi, you are making me consider leaving Bellatrix. Good job, you disgusting twat.

While searching my mother's desk for something the other day, I came upon a pile of floppy disks. A virtual stronghold of bygone computer days, never to be used or loved again. I think the last time I used a floppy disk was in the 90's, when Bill Clinton was still considered a "family man" and dinosaurs roamed the earth. Of course, in this high-tech, futuristic digital age, my laptop doesn't even have a floppy drive. Much like stone tablets and another ancient form of data storage known as the "book," these brightly colored plastic squares are now useless for their intended purpose.

Now, I could simply dispose of them, but that would be unbefitting of their memory (and only add to the growing trash problem across the nation). So I pose this question to you, readers of the cesspit I call my journal: What should I do with these things?

Okay, seriously? You're already the worst student in this class. Your final project is due next week, and you've done next to no work on it. Some of the others are almost done. DO. YOUR. WORK.

But if you insist on not doing your work, could you at least not be so obvious about it? Watching horror movie reviews during lab time is insulting to the professor and annoying to the rest of us. If the prof weren't such a sweetheart you'd have been kicked out ages ago.